


Scenes from another end of the world

by februari



Category: Matantei Loki Ragnarok | Mythical Detective Loki Ragnarok
Genre: Gen, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:30:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/februari/pseuds/februari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes from another end of the world

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this anon: http://fail-fandomanon.livejournal.com/65658.html?thread=308910202#t308910202

_Day 1_

It started the usual way. First the familiar sound of Mayura's excited footsteps heading up the stairs; then the study door flung unceremoniously open, the enthusiastic cry of "Loki-kun!" as she bounded into the room.

Loki took a slow, deliberate sip of his tea, and wondered vaguely what it would be this time. A haunted playground, perhaps. The opening of a new patisserie -- Yamino might like that. Or maybe some old nemesis from Asgard, attempting to kill him in new and inventive ways. Lovely. "What is it, Mayura?"

When he looked up, her smile was a little sharper, shakier than usual. And was that blood--?

"Zombies!"

* * *

_Day 8_

Loki was doing an informal stock-take. It wasn't looking good.

He'd embarked on the exercise that morning, after it transpired that their tea stocks were nearly depleted. Having zombies running loose across the country tended to put a crimp in things such as mail-order services, which was why Yamino had bravely volunteered to venture forth and attempt to raid the nearest supermarket. (The fridge was still stocked with food, but even that was running low; they might even have to resort to canned soup, and then where would they be? It didn't bear thinking about.)

That was the morning. By now Loki's attempt at inventory had degenerated into a prolonged internal whinge. Right now he had one study, still complete with heavy desk. Several shelves of irrelevant books that were nonetheless heavy enough to use as projectiles, if it came to it. One human assistant, armed with standing lamp. The distinct lack of a magical staff.

(He'd lost Laevateinn in the first wave of attacks, abandoning it to a splintery fate after failing to wrest it from the grips of half-a-dozen undead hands. The sudden dissipation of locked-up magic that resulted had taken out all zombies in the vicinity, in some sort of de-animating shockwave, and bought them a few days of peace; there was that to be thankful for, at least.)

He used to be better than this, he thought morosely. He was a god, wasn't he? But look at him now. Holed up at the top of a mansion he'd foolishly started to think of as home, with an ordinary human by his side and armed only with the broken leg of what had, until very recently, been a chair.

It had been a nice chair, too. He'd really liked that chair.

"Loki-kun!" Mayura nudged him with the end of her lampstand, not turning away from the window. "There's another group coming. I wonder if it's Yamino-kun's cooking that keeps attracting them? Maybe they're still hungry for human food, I'm sure brains can't be that tasty anyway..."

Loki ignored her speculations on the undead's gastronomic preferences and peered past her. There they were: half a dozen shambling ex-humans, making their way along the street under a cheerfully blue sky.

On an ordinary day, he thought, he would be enjoying this weather. Reading a book, perhaps. And his sons would be in the study with him, and they would be having tea, maybe even cakes, and if Yamino left the study it would be to go no further than the kitchen to refill the teapot or fetch another plate of sandwiches. Certainly not to venture forth into a zombie-infested neighbourhood for the sake of supplies.

Everything would be so much easier if the dead stayed dead. Loki tightened his grip on the chair leg. The next time he met Hel, he thought grimly, he was going to have a very long conversation with her.

***

They were almost at the mansion's front door when a blood-stained _something_ lunged out of the bushes.

"Four-eyes! About time."

Fenrir's growl petered out into a muffled "Hmph", and the small dog trotted past the intruder.

Yamino readjusted his armfuls of groceries, blinking rapidly, until the scream he had stifled was satisfied and stopped trying to get free. "Narugami-san. Hello."

"Was starting to miss your cooking, so I thought I'd drop by." Narugami took a half-step forward, his bokken dangling from one hand. "It's been pretty tough these last few days -- no rest for the forces of justice, yeah? Mjollnir's been great, though."

Yamino glanced at the bokken, very carefully did not shudder, and walked past Narugami to join Fenrir at the mansion's front door.

As he fumbled with the lock, Yamino thought that he couldn't say he'd missed Narugami. Anyway, the community was safer with Narugami patrolling it, surely? Better to have him out there, keeping the populace safe, than have him indoors, in Loki's mansion, with gore spattered up to his elbows and suspicious stains darkening the fabric of his gakuran.

"Something wrong, four-eyes?"

Narugami's voice was low, his breath hot on the back of Yamino's neck. This close, he smelt of death; death and the promise of death. Yamino glanced back. Narugami's eyes were a bit too bright, and there was a smear of... _something_ on his cheek.

He'd track grime all over the nice wooden floors, too, Yamino thought. And the carpet.

"It's nothing."

Once they were all inside, barricading the front door didn't take too long. Narugami even helped to carry some of the groceries into the kitchen. They made it upstairs to the study, eventually, and Fenrir shot forward eagerly, whining about how the zombies smelled terrible and tasted worse and did he really need to escort his younger brother around?-- and Loki smiled and picked him up, stroking his fur gently.

"Brought your sons back," Narugami said. "What's for dinner?"

Loki looked up, midway through a litany of praise (Fenrir was curled up in his lap, tail wagging furiously).

"Narukami-kun. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Yamino turned away. It was no use; he could _hear_ the manic smile appearing on Narugami's-- _Thor's_ face as the god replied: "Aren't you, Loki? Just like old times."

* * *

_Day 11_

Heimdall ducked.

The shard of metal came to an abrupt stop, sizzling gently as it met the patch of wall where his head had been a second ago.

"It's me!" Heimdall exclaimed hotly. "Are you blind? And what was even the point of that, it's not like a knife will stop a zombie."

"Freyr can't be expected to tell comrades apart from zombies when they have ridiculous haircuts which obscure their features." Freyr paused. "And Heimdall is clearly lacking in his ability to recognise specially-crafted magic weapons. But then, he cannot be expected to have any grasp of the magic of the Vanir, poor thing."

There was a muffled clunking noise from the shadows behind him, which would have been ominous if it had been less commonplace in their household.

"What did you... never mind, I don't want to know." Heimdall held out a bulging eco-friendly tote bag. "Here's what we need to survive the next week, don't bother to thank me."

"Freyr is beholden to no one." There was a bit of rummaging around, and then: "Especially people who cannot even procure the correct brand of coffee."

Heimdall ignored him and strode to the far side of the room to greet his falcon instead. A traitorous, unthinkable possibility was beginning to set up camp in his mind. He could even rationalise it to himself: a larger base, far more difficult for the undead hordes to storm, with more people defending it. Someone who could distract Freyr. Better food. As far as Heimdall was concerned, the enemy of his current undead enemy was still his enemy. But at least it was an enemy who lived in a nice mansion.

* * *

_Day 17_

_"Stop looking so smug, Loki, or I swear I_ will _kill you--"_

* * *

_Day ??_

Among the ragged bands of survivors in a certain Japanese suburb, word began to spread of an apparition that repelled the zombies as if they were mere ragdolls. Some called it the Angel of Light; others, the Flying Purity. The stories varied: sometimes it was a lone phantom in the night, hunting down the undead and leaving now-very-dead bodies in its wake. Other witnesses swore it was accompanied: sometimes by a slight figure wielding a staff, sometimes by a howling, ankle-ravaging beast. But they all told of its ghostly grace; its deceptively slight size; and that unmistakeable, unearthly, high-pitched cry of _Punya!_


End file.
